


Smell

by Iroto



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iroto/pseuds/Iroto
Summary: He feared losing that friendship more than anything.





	Smell

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, sorry for the possible mistakes!

Crowley had always considered his sense of smell to be rather keen. While it may seem to lack any practical use, being able to smell that something was off had helped him more than once, whether it was to escape a room filled with poisonous gas or to discover his food had been tampered with. Danger, however, was the last thing on his mind right now.

The thin man sat on his bed, leaning back against the wall. Clutched in one hand was a shirt. It wasn't his own shirt, obviously. He kept better care of his own things, and didn't leave them lying around for ne’er do wells such as himself to steal. His room was dim, the lights off and the curtains drawn, with only a sliver of moonlight peeping in from the window illuminating the inside. Almost hidden in the darkness, ugly tartan stripes identified shirt as belonging to the Aziraphale.

Crowley pressed the balled up, tartan shirt against his face and inhaled deeply, his eyelids fluttering closed. Ecstasy, was how he described the scent. Sure, it smelled of sweat, weird choice of perfume, dusty books but it was these scents mixed with an underlying musk that made Aziraphale, and all his belongings, smell so intoxicating. It was very difficult to ignore the sharp longing that Crowley felt whenever he passed time in his bookshop. They were friends, or at least, supposed to be. Crowley was painfully aware that the angel would never return these feelings. 

It only got harder when they were close enough to be a little more physically intimate, though not always in the way Crowley wished. In private, Aziraphale allowed the demon close, close enough to hold hands or brush shoulders. More than once, they found themselves bundled up together in front of the fireplace, struggling to keep their eyes open while laughing at each others’ stories. These were easy times to pass. Crowley enjoyed their friendship. It was only on nights like these, the painfully lonely nights, that he wished they could've been something… Different. Something more, almost. He wished he could feel the bare skin hidden beneath coarse cloth, hold more than just the angel's hands. He wanted to kiss him, to touch him, and to hold him close, closer than a friend had the right to do. But that would simply never happen. He feared losing that friendship more than anything. He would much rather settle for this than lose it all. The tentative almost-touches, the moments Crowley shared only with himself--with nothing but stolen clothing and his own right hand.

This is what happens, he chided himself as he took another deep breath, when you get too involved. All these accursed emotions and desires, mixed up into one jumbled mess of wants, needs, and denial. One hand wandered to the elastic of his briefs, hesitating momentarily. Every time he had this internal moral struggle. It wasn't right, part of him said, because he's your friend. You also shouldn't lust after an angel, and besides… He wouldn't have you anyway, no matter how often you do this. The other, more insistent part of him always crooned: you deserve this much at least, right? If you can't have him, and you don't want to force him… This is all you can and will ever get. Nothing more, only less. But it could be worse. You could do worse. This is fine, just relax…

It was easy to say which side always lost and which side always won. Crowley was never the most upstanding being.

The wandering hand slid up to undo the last few buttons of his shirt, exposing his torso to the chilly night air. It made his hair stand on end, but he knew the chill wouldn't last. Briefly, he paused to switch which hand held the shirt to his nose. Then, his newly freed hand wandered over his body.

Crowley kept his eyes closed, squeezing them tightly shut so as to not ruin the illusion he had made in his mind. The hand running over his skin wasn't his own, it was his beloved Aziraphale's. He groaned softly into the coarse cloth covering his mouth and nose, the sound too muffled and quiet to carry out of his room. Cool, long fingers trailed over his collarbone, trickled down his side, and traced up the contours of his stomach. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. The scent of his favorite angel engulfed him, and the demon sighed near silently. Using one hand to hold the shirt in place, he returned to giving himself attention. With his eyes tightly shut, one hand wandered to his chest, tweaking his nipple between his fingers. The feeling was electric. He bit back a moan, arching his back up, pretending that it made a difference.

Crowley let himself drift into his fantasy slowly, imagining that it wasn't his own hand touching himself, but Aziraphale's. He imagined the angel's soft hands wandering over Crowley's skin, the soft skin feeling wonderful against his body. Slowly, the hand wandered to his other nipple, gently rubbing it in a circle, teasing him until he was hard and aching. Crowley couldn't stop the groans that now escaped from his lips. It didn't matter anyway, no one would be awake this late at night. The hand holding Aziraphale's shirt to Crowley's nose stiffened, pressing the coarse cloth more insistently into his face. His breaths came faster, a little more labored than before.

Crowley figured it was time to finally pay attention to himself a little more closely. This time, his hand didn't hesitate at the weak barrier of elastic that drew the line between decency and indecency. Slipping the briefs down just slightly, the demon let out a breathy moan as he exposed the rest of himself to the night. He could almost imagine Aziraphale's angelic voice simultaneously chiding and encouraging him, telling him it was both a terrible and absolutely terrific idea to continue. Crowley agreed, it was the most terrible, most terrific idea to continue this fantasy. He gently grasped himself with his hand, gasping slightly as he felt the pleasure pooling in his stomach suddenly spike. An electric tingle shot up his spine, tingling against the back of his thighs, reaching even the soles of his feet.

A wanton moan escaped his lips, buried beneath the stolen shirt. Crowley breathed in deeply again, taking in the scent of dust and sweat as he moved his other hand. He stroked himself slowly and that the scent he was very nearly drowning in came from the demon himself, not a pilfered article of clothing.

His hand picked up the pace, becoming erratic as he started moving his hips in tandem. Precum leaked from the tip and smeared in his hand as he continued, his cries becoming louder and louder the more he tried to muffle them. Desperate, he caught a fistful of coarse cloth between his teeth, gagging the voice that insisted on continuing to make embarrassingly loud and lustful noises as he climbed quickly towards climax. Pleasure built in the pit of his stomach, filling him with impatient warmth as he growled angel's name against the shirt he held to his face. His hand moved faster, more frantically, and his movements became erratic as his muscles tightened and jerked. Just as he thought he couldn't possibly work himself up any higher, Crowley found himself tumbling over the edge, the angel's name on his lips. His eyes shot open, yet they saw nothing but burning white as he spilled into his hand.

Slowly, the demon relaxed back against the mattress, his muscles twitching slightly as he rode through the aftershocks. His hand was sticky with cum, which he will clean later. The gentle afterglow embraced his whole body with its warmth. Crowley realized that at some point between his climax and now, he had let Aziraphale's shirt fall from his face. The clear night air only accentuated the heat radiating off his body. He felt content, even as his body occasionally tingled with what he could only describe as leftover energy.

Crowley lay like that for a few minutes, basking in that soft golden feeling, until it was slowly pushed out by shame and, to his surprise, loneliness. Lying there with nothing for company but his hand and a stolen shirt suddenly felt horrifyingly lonely. The only way he could describe his state now was desperate. He was desperate for some kind of attention, for someone to finally touch him and release the tension building in his body. He wanted it, but he couldn't have it. The sliver of moonlight in his room suddenly increased in intensity, as if a cloud half obscuring the moon had just left.

Slowly, feeling his very bones creak, Crowley reached for the tissues on his nightstand. He just had to occupy his mind and his hands.

The used tissues were soon tossed into the wastebasket, the demon gingerly slipping beneath the blanket on his bed. As he lay his head down, he suddenly realized that the shirt, the thing that had sparked the events of this night, was still lying there on his pillow. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for it. Clutching the shirt like a lifeline, Crowley curled up in bed and pressed his face into the coarse fabric of the tartan shirt.

This would just have to be enough.


End file.
